


Can I Order Your Number?

by zeski



Series: Sterek tumblr ficlets 2020 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista Stiles Stilinski, Editor Derek Hale, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22383370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeski/pseuds/zeski
Summary: Stiles has theperfectsign to attract customers into his family's café. It's a great idea like all his other ideas. Really.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Erica Reyes & Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski
Series: Sterek tumblr ficlets 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611229
Comments: 25
Kudos: 362





	Can I Order Your Number?

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this post](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/post/190433362865/brolininthetardis-this-is-a-coffeeshop-au) on tumblr.
> 
> Accompanying [post](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/post/190439239425/can-i-order-your-number).
> 
> I have no excuses for this. It screamed 'Stiles' to me and here we are.

“Won’t your mom kill you for that?”

Stiles scoffs. “My mom has never killed _anybody_ in her life, buddy.”

“Might as well start now, I think,” Scott says, folding his arms. “I wouldn’t blame her, honestly.”

Critics. The world is full of them. It’s not Stiles’ fault that Scott can’t see the poetry behind a fine piece of art. Sure, it’s not the next Monalisa or a Picasso, but it’s good. It’s _damn_ pretty good, if Stiles says so himself.

He takes a step back to behold his art for their outside board menu. Instead of the usual special of the day, today he’s trying something different. Something bolder and eye-grabbing. One look at it, and people will _rush_ into his family’s café for a good coffee. 

He _knows_ it. 

“I don’t see how telling the whole town that you’re single will help us sell more, Stiles.”

Unlike certain best friends with a crooked jaw that he won’t name for ethical reasons, it seems.

Sighing, Stiles places both hands on Scott’s shoulders. He squeezes them in a quick massage, only stopping when feeling muscles loosen up under his palms. It’s the tension talking. He’d expected as much. 

Two things Stiles has as universal truths: one, Scott loves him. To death, even. Two, his ideas are great. No exceptions. And now that he’s taken tension out of the equation, Scott is sure to appreciate his art like it deserves to be. From a stick man rendition of himself to the underlined emphasis on _‘hella fucking gay’_.

“Are we opening today, or…?” Erica joins them, tying her apron behind her back. Her eyes readily land on Stiles’ art, and a grimace replaces her smile. “Won’t your mom kill you for doing that?”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest. Once. Twice. He even opens it a third time, but then Erica beats him to it, reading his sign out loud.

“‘Today your barista is: 1. Hella fucking gay. 2. Desperately single.’” She purses her lips into thin lines, and Stiles hasn’t felt this judged since... five minutes ago, showing this very art to Scott. “‘For your drink today I recommend: You give me your number.’”

“So?” Scott asks.

Erica sighs. “His mum is _definitely_ killing him.”

“No one’s getting killed today _besides_ my loneliness; I’m no Britney!” Stiles reaches for the board, nearly dropping it on his foot. He’s forgotten it’s actually heavier than it looks, and he always needs Scott’s help to take it outside. “I’m getting a boyfriend today. I speak this into existence!”

As Stiles drags his sign away, he misses his friends arguing over who should keep his jeep in his passing.

#

Okay, okay. Maybe—and here it’s a tiny, almost non-existent _maybe_ —there’s a chance that Stiles idea isn’t _that_ great. Still great, though. Just not up there with all his other great ideas. It’s an average kind of great. That’s still plenty compared to other people’s ideas, so (technically) he’s still correct and Scott is _wrong_.

Even after getting chewed up by his mom.

Point stands: his sign _does_ work. Lots come in to order just because they _“found it so funny!”_ Which isn’t Stiles' primary goal, but hey, that’s money flowing in, right? No one can complain about it chasing away the clientele. Good, good.

However, even better would be for someone to ask for his number. Scrap that: someone other than your typical, coffee-loving twink.

It breaks Stiles' heart to accept their numbers, because he’s been in their shoes and not getting a call back _hurts_. But he’s older now, and his preferences have changed as well. He’s not sugar daddy material, nor does he aspire to be. And while he’s not going for guys younger than him, he’s not shooting for actual dads his actual dad’s age, either.

What Stiles wants… he has a clear image, actually. It’s a sole thing he’s looking for in a potential date: a nice chest rug. Not necessarily the bushiest or the most toned, but something he can lay his head on and take a good nap. And since it’ll be his cheek there, he favors natural texture, that won’t prickle his skin.

“I need something like… like…” He looks around for the closest example. “Something like this, Scotty,” he says, gesturing to the chest area. His fingers rake through coarse hair that’s still nice at touch. “ _When_ am I getting one of this?”

Scott scratches at his neck. “Stiles...”

Somebody clears their throat. It’s not Scott, nor Stiles, and least of all Erica.

“Are you done with my chest?”

Two things Stiles realizes belatedly. The first one is that he fails to notice a new customer by the counter. The second one—and this is the worst of all—is the chest on his hand. Or his hand on the chest, if sticking to technicalities. A chest that’s not _his_. 

He should have suspected such a perfect example so readily available. It’s not like Scott has any chest hair, and his own is just a central strip and some around the nipples.

Stiles jerks away from the counter. He stares at the open shirt, then stares at Derek Hale and his damn perfect eyebrows. Just how high they reach into Derek’s forehead tells everything he needs to know. Because no one’s eyebrow can have entire conversations, except for Derek Hale’s.

“I’d like to order today’s special,” Derek says, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up. “Like the first five times before I tried to grab a menu.”

 _Oh._ That explains his chest within Stiles’ reach. It _doesn’t_ do shit about Mr. _sun-out-tiddies-out's_ exhibitionist tendencies. Though, to be fair, with pecs like that Stiles would also get them boys out for some fresh air. He’s not complaining, either. Good for Derek for doing this community work and sparing some tiddy to the less fortunate.

“Coming right through,” Stiles replies.

Great. He’s just discovered that Derek is potential dating material, and somehow has also managed to cause a bad impression. For real: who’s going to believe a random touched your pecs in the heat of an explanation? He’ll hand over Derek’s drink and call it a day.

 _God._ This day can’t get any worse.

“Excuse me?”

Stiles freezes at Derek’s voice. No, no, no. Don’t do this. _Please,_ let him leave this interaction with a spec of dignity to his name. The last thing he needs is for Derek Hale bring up his accidental pec groping ever again. It’s fine if it’s a simple request for an apology, because now that Stiles thinks about it, he hasn’t apologized yet.

“There’s no number here,” Derek says flatly.

Stiles inspects the cup himself. No number, indeed. There shouldn’t be any. Duh.

“It doesn’t???” he replies, despite his tone turning it into another question.

“I was hoping for... your recommendation...” Derek rubs his palm over his neck. He’s suddenly very entertained by the café’s counter. “Since you didn’t ask for mine, I thought—” he pauses, meeting Stiles’ gaze. “It’s okay if you don’t want to give your number—”

“I’ll give, _yes!_ ” He struggles to unclip his sharpie from his apron, breaking off part of the cap. “Who said I’m not giving? I’m _so_ giving. I’m giving you everything and right now!”

Derek’s eyes grow almost as big as his lenses, and those happen to take most of his face. 

_Shit._

“Not everything, I mean. I don’t really mind it in the near future, but not everything, _everything_. Eventually, at some point, yeah. I’d love that. That would be my pleasure. Hopefully yours, too, ‘cause it’s no fun if only one—”

The sharpie gets snatched from Stiles’ grip, and his number scrawled on Derek’s drink. He’s just acknowledged his mom’s presence, when she gives back the drink along with a gift card.

“To make up for your embarrassment,” she tells Derek with a smile. Then, she glances at Stiles and sighs, adding, “Current and _future_ embarrassment.”

“I’ll call you,” Derek whispers, and then walks away. 

If Stiles strains his neck, it’s definitely _not_ to catch a glimpse of the most perfect ass he’s ever seen in Beacon Hills. Mama Stilinski mustn’t share the same opinion, since she slaps him behind the head.

Scott sighs, shaking his head. It seems contagious around here.

“I can’t believe it worked. On _Derek Hale_ , of all people!”

“Owe me 50 bucks, McCall,” Erica beams. She grabs Stiles by the shoulders, massaging his shoulders like he had to Scott earlier. “Go get ‘im, tiger.”

Stiles shrugs her off. “I hate you two so phenomenally much.”

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> For inquiries on prompts and AUs, reach me @[zeskiyo](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, or @[zeskiverse](https://twitter.com/zeskiverse) on twitter.


End file.
